Love
by ThenWhenWeRetire
Summary: Pilate learns that some things are just too difficult to do alone. Not slash. A bit bloody though. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Lately I've been on a Jesus kick. I've been reading the Bible, watching Mel Gibson's _Passion of the Christ_ and listening to _Jesus Christ Superstar._ Couldn't really tell you which version this is based on. I guess a combination of the three.

Warning: story contains some blood & guts (But really, what crucifixion story doesn't?)

* * *

Pilate opened his eyes in an unfamiliar room. He blinked, sat up, tried to get his bearings.

Something felt wrong. He gasped, which drove home what the problem (problem?) was: the crackling in his lungs had vanished. In fact, he felt… he looked down at himself. He felt, and looked, fantastic. "Impossible," he muttered. Was he dreaming? No, of course not. When he dreamed he always believed it was real. It was only reality at its most bizarre that he ever doubted.

"Real, then," he said aloud. "But impossible." From nothing, understanding dawned all at once. He'd gone to bed an ailing old man in his bedroom and woken up young, healthy, and somewhere new. He was dead.

"No!" He jumped out of the bed, feeling ridiculous. _No_? Did he think that could change fact? "Fuck, _fuck_! I'm-… _dead_." He started to pace, absently noting details he had initially missed: the room was bare save for the luxurious bed and a carpet on the floor. No door. How had he gotten here, if there was no-

"Hello."

Pilate whipped around at the greeting, to find a man standing in a doorway that he was _sure _hadn't been there a few moments before. He recognized the man without difficulty, even though it had been many years since last they'd met.

"Jesus Christ," he said at once, and then before he could debate the wisdom of being rude: "You're looking very well."

"Thank you. You are, too." Though he stood with the same quiet dignity that had so unnerved Pilate on their last meeting, Jesus seemed a little more at ease.

Pilate turned away and continued pacing. "Why am I here?"

"I think you know why."

"I finally died."

"Yes."

"So this is where the dead go – quiet, solitary bedrooms?"

"Did you expect something different?"

The thought of vast underground kingdoms of dark and cold crossed his mind, but Pilate shrugged it off. He _knew _about the Pluto, the Styx, the Underworld, certainly, but had he actually expected it to _exist_?

"You see what you expect to see," Jesus resumed.

"I did not expect to see _you_."

"Didn't you?"

Pilate fumed, but silently, until Jesus finally spoke again. "If you want an explanation, all you have to do is ask."

Pilate finally stood still. As before, he had a very bad feeling about where the conversation would end but as before, there didn't seem to be anything to say besides: "Talk to me."

* * *

It was a theology lecture, delivered slowly and gently in a tone that Pilate hadn't heard since childhood... the tone of an adult about to take a rod to him _all for your own good_. He was _sure_ there was something unpleasant coming at the end, and waited out all Jesus's talk of Love and God and Paradise with mounting trepidation.

Finally he couldn't take it any more. When Jesus paused for breath he interrupted: "Whatever it is you've got to say to me, please: just say it."

"No, no, don't be afraid," Jesus assured. "As I said, I was sacrificed to provide men with a way _out _of the inferno. You're not going to be sent there. When I am with Him my Father can be a very merciful judge."

Pilate did not feel reassured. "But…?" he prompted. "I'm not to be eternally burnt, _but_…"

"But nothing. But love God, and you can leave here and move to enjoy peace with me and all the other men He smiles on."

"_Love God_, what does that mean?" Pilate snapped immediately. "I've been in politics long enough to know it means _obey._ What does he want me to do?" Jesus was silent and Pilate stared at him and suddenly he knew the answer. "No. _No,_" he repeated when nobody assured him that he had misunderstood. "No, that can't-… that makes no sense. You just finished telling me that your afterlife is not about punishment."

"It's not. You aren't being punished for anything. You are simply doing what God wants of you," Jesus explained. "If you mean to share in the eternal joy with me, you must love God with all your heart. That takes time. Understanding will come later… but you can start showing Him obedience now."

"No- _no_. I will not. Wait – perhaps I misunderstood you." He took a breath and held it. "Your god wants-… what does he want me to do?"

Jesus nodded. "What your heart tells you. You haven't misunderstood: you must pass judgment on yourself as you passed judgment on me." Pilate wanted to breathe _no _again but restrained himself. Obviously it would get him nowhere. "Men will come. They will do your bidding, and they will stop whenever you tell them to. Order it done step by step… you know how… and afterwards-"

"They'll _stop_?"

"Yes. If you change your mind, if you can't give yourself over to God's will and you want it to stop, all you have to do is say so."

"And then? The fire pit?"

Jesus shook his head. "No, I told you, you are safe. You can stay here as long as you wish, and try as many times as you need to. When eventually you've managed a sacrifice that is pleasing to the Lord, then you'll be brought to me, and…" he spread his hands. "Your troubles will be over."

"I-… You're mad."

At that, Jesus threw back his head and laughed outright. "Spare me, Pilate," he said, still chuckling a little. "You never believed that for a second."

* * *

Pilate was not easily bored. Given the choice between solitude and torture, he opted firmly for the former, perfectly willing to spend some time alone thinking.

He slept a lot. He thought of his youth, his career, his illness. He thought of the things he'd read and the things he'd written. He tried to remember the name of each and every one of his aides over the years, as well as whatever juicy little tidbit had made them willing to kill or die for him as the need arose (some had had sons who were thieves or rapists, others an expensive addiction to some imported poppy product, and one man, incredibly, had had a need for… _misusing _people's pet cats that he had been desperate to satisfy in secret.)

Pilate thought a lot about the things he had done and not done. He thought about his mother, his wife.

He lost himself in memory for as long as he could, but eventually, of course, after what he guessed to be at least several months, he found himself seriously considering what Jesus had told him. Could he have been telling the truth… and if so, what was there to do about it?

Certainly he wouldn't…

More time passed. Finally, more out of curiosity than anything else, he cleared his throat and called for his men.

He was almost surprised when they actually did come, a group of young, blank-faced soldiers who stood waiting patiently for his instructions.

He laughed. "This is ludicrous." They didn't answer. Finally he threw his arms wide and said, still laughing: "Well? Crucify me, then!"

"No." Jesus was there now, although Pilate was sure that he hadn't been a moment ago. "That's not how it is. I know how you Romans execute a man; I've seen it first hand. Come. Do it properly."

_Properly _could only mean one thing: he was going to have to live all the pain and degradation of the cross from start to finish. He was going to have to know, really _know_, exactly what horror he'd assigned an innocent man.

Man? If only. _Men_ would be a bit more accurate. There hadn't been _many_, certainly, but Pilate could remember maybe half a dozen like the Nazarean, men who had died because the alternative, actual justice, would have been too much work on a day he had a headache. Or because they'd debated skillfully and embarrassed him in front of his court. Or (and this one hurt worst of all) because somebody with a lot of money had had it in for them, and had paid off everyone from the witnesses to the guards… on up… to ensure that everything went according to plan.

He felt bad for a moment, until he remembered what was about to happen to him. Self-castigation seemed pointless and a bit cruel under these circumstances.

Well, he would gain nothing by waiting. _Get on with it,_ he told himself grimly. Standard procedure was for the condemned to be scourged. He hesitated for only a second, then turned and snapped the command out the way he always did: sharp and sure, and almost annoyed. "Flog- _me_." The word felt strange in his mouth.

"That's right," Jesus whispered. "Everything as it was done to me."

Pilate was only half-listening to him; his attention was riveted on the whip that was now twitching in a soldier's hand. He appraised it quickly: four short leather tails, studded only lightly with chips of bone. Not designed to expose the victim's spinal cord at least, although it would draw a fair bit of blood if you swung it hard enough.

_It could be worse. _Pilate told himself to appreciate even small mercies, and moved to loosen his robe.

People grabbed him and roughly stripped him to the waist. They shoved him to stand between two posts, and when he broke into a sweat from the sun he realized they were no longer inside.

They stretched his arms out and looped rope around his wrists. "What's this?" he said, with a short mirthless laugh. "I'm not going to try and esc-"

It ended in a wheeze when someone hit him in the solar plexus.

By the time he had caught his breath, he was firmly tied. Sick, (_not_ scared), he swallowed and turned to look over his shoulder. There were two men standing, whips at the ready, waiting for something. He realized after a moment what it was.

"Oh come, don't…" he complained. Nobody answered. Fine. He turned to face front again, braced up as best he could, and said: "One."

* * *

There was a sharp _whh-CRACK _and the impact jerked him forwards… and only afterwards came the flash of pain. It was so intense it took his breath away.

_No - it's all right,_ he assured himself once the shock had passed. It burned fiercely, still, but he told himself it had only been so bad because he hadn't been expecting it. Now he was, and the next time would be easier. "Two."

It was just as awful this time and he hissed while he tried to ride it out. It hurt_, _gods no it really hurt, why did it have to _hurt _so much! He squirmed, his back feeling wet already... but that had to be his imagination…

"You can end it whenever you need to," Jesus reminded him neutrally. "All you have to do is say stop."

Pilate shot a withering glare in his direction; did this silly little bleeding heart think that a couple of lashes was somehow more than he could handle? "Three," he snarled, pressing his lips together so as to take it silently.

His pride carried him through the first dozen, which he counted off faster and faster in an effort to get this all _over _with. He was twisting against the ropes, gasping and squeaking every time the whip tore across his bloodied shoulders, but he was managing. He was managing until lash number thirteen, when along with the pain came the realization that he was only a third of the way there, that this would go on, that _this _which was killing him had only just begun and he was going to have to ask for another now while he was already on _fire _and… He said "Fourteen," but then panic overtook him and he shrieked "_Stop!_" before the blow could land.

Immediately he felt dizzy. He felt the world shift around him as if he were falling asleep, and the next thing he knew he was sitting up in bed, alone.

It was as though the beating had never happened. He could _remember_ the pain well enough, but he felt fine now and there was no physical sign of the injury he had suffered. _You can try as many times as you need to, _Jesus had told him… did that mean he would have to start all over again? He supposed so.

He considered resting a while first, but decided there would be no point. Might as well get it over with now, before he went mad in this bare little cell. "All right – again. I'm ready," he called out into thin air. "I… am ready to be crucified now."

He knew as soon as the words had left his mouth that it was a lie, but he figured he would cross that bridge when he came to it. First there was the flogging to deal with. He was confident he would finish this time, especially now that he knew he could cry off if he had to.

But that didn't stop his stomach from clenching up with dread when the men came for him and pushed his robe off his shoulders.

* * *

It was a good long time later, and Pilate was still trying.

Mostly he was doing it alone now, although Jesus still sometimes showed up to offer a little encouragement… always with a side of advice like _love and trust in God _or _ask for His help_. Once or twice Pilate had found himself screaming for mercy from Jesus's god as well as all his own, but somehow he didn't think that that was exactly what Jesus had in mind.

Today he had made some progress, he thought. He knew that he had held out as the hammer was raised, knew he'd seen it coming down, he'd squeezed his eyes shut and he _thought_ that this time he'd kept quiet until the blow was struck. He _thought_ that for the first time, he'd heard the crunch of bone yielding to iron. He thought so.

But then he'd screamed _stop _so fast that he couldn't be sure.

When he woke up he felt sick, but apparently death had robbed him of the ability to vomit. There was nothing to do but sit with his head between his knees until the feeling passed.

"I can't do this," he said aloud, as usual. As usual he got no response to that. "Yes, I can. I'll have to. Or this will go on." He touched the center of his palm gently, shuddering at the memory of the nail's cool pressure. _Gods_… Feeling even sicker, he slid down from the bed to the floor, waiting on his hands and knees to feel better. "It's impossible…" he murmured. No, he knew, that wasn't true – of course it was _possible_, people got crucified all the time. The thing was, they _all _screamed for it to stop in the end. Nobody had to actually _ask _for it….

Well, no, that wasn't true either. He knew of at least _one _person who'd asked for it, who had quite determinedly delivered himself up to the cross and died on it without a word of complaint. _How_?

Pilate touched his hand again and then had to rub furiously against his clothes to get rid of the sensation. "_How, _Jesus, by all that's sacred _how did you do it_?"

Suddenly he felt _watched_, and looked up to see Jesus standing by the door. "You know how I did it."

Pilate didn't bother to get up off the floor; by now Jesus had seen enough of his whining and groveling to make pride a moot point. "I'm afraid I don't have your fortitude," he said from his knees. "I'm _trying – _you see I am trying – but it's beyond me and I think it always will be."

Jesus seemed pleased that he wasn't going to shout and rail the way he sometimes had in the past. "Of course it's beyond you, if you try to do it all yourself! God _wants _to be there for you," he pressed earnestly. "He wants to lift your burdens from you. Why won't you let Him?"

Pilate laughed. "He's more than welcome to this burden; let _him _torture himself and see how he likes it! I don't-"

"Please." For the first time Pilate could remember, Jesus looked severe and almost annoyed. "You know I empathize – I've _been _where you are. All I'm saying is that your fear will vanish if you just trust in the Lord."

"It's not the _fear _that's bothering me, it is the fucking _nails _hammered through my fucking _hands _that I can't deal with!"

Jesus shifted his stance and clasped his hands behind his back. "Really? You _can't deal with _a few hours of physical pain? When you know it's the path to eternal happiness?"

Pilate's mouth opened but no words came out. The lunatic was right, of course. Pain had never been a problem for him even when he _didn't _have the comfort of knowing that a single word could stop it completely. No, while the hurt was certainly unwelcome, it _was _the fear, the dread and horror of his ordeal, that was making him cry off every time.

"It is God's will," Jesus reminded. "And once you accept that, then there's nothing more to fear. There's no strain, no terror, nothing to fight. It all becomes much easier. Submit to God's will – that's all that is required of you."

"All," Pilate sneered half-heartedly. He got up and sat on his bed, sighing and running a hand through his hair. "How am I supposed to submit to a god I don't even know?" he asked after a moment. "I've served other gods all my life. _You _may have been granted signs and visions, but I've seen nothing of the kind and I don't know how to _trust _a deity whose sole involvement in my life thus far has been to cause me pain and suffering!"

Jesus came and sat beside him. "Signs and visions, perhaps not. But you've seen _me._ God's only son. What more could you possibly want?"

Pilate shrugged. There was just no debating with mad people, and Jesus (holy or not) was as mad as they came. "Thank you for pointing out the true nature of this test," he said after a moment. "It would be a lie to say I _accept _the will of your vicious father-god, but the fact is I have no choice but to obey it and so I will. I'll ignore the pain, and master my fear, and I'll suffer until your god is satisfied with me."

Jesus was smiling as he shook his head. "With that attitude, you'll do better," he allowed, "But there is no substitute for wholehearted love of the Lord. No man can fully master his fear on his own; you'll need God to take it from you."

Pilate stood up and tossed his head back proudly. "Perhaps. But God doesn't seem inclined to perform that particular service today, does he, and I see no reason to sit around waiting for him. I'm ready now. Let's begin."

"As you wish."

Jesus rose, but Pilate grabbed at his robe to stop him. "Wait…"

"Yes?"

"When I look at you I see gentleness and peace," he explained quickly, not quite able to manage eye contact. "And hope. Would you… stay with me?"

"Certainly. I will be with you, as God was with me."

"Ah… as an invisible, unhelpful presence that is only here to mock desperate cries for help?"

"No. As a constant, loving source of support and comfort," Jesus corrected with a twitch of his lips, "Who understands that misery can bring out the worst in a man and is prepared to forgive. Now prepare yourself – they're coming."

* * *

Later.

"One." Hardly had the word left him, when the blow threw him forwards hard enough to wrench his shoulders. He swore inwardly and closed his eyes.

By ten he was no longer silent. By twenty he no longer writhed. He was hanging mostly by his wrists, head lolling forwards except when the shock of some particularly vicious lash jerked it up again. By thirty he was shaking so hard his teeth rattled, and he'd passed from _crying out _to actually _crying_. He wailed the last few numbers so hysterically that it was a wonder they knew which was finally thirty-nine.

Still, agony or not he found himself sorry that the beating was over; now it was time for even worse things and he already felt so worn out he doubted he would get very far.

They cut him down and he stayed where he fell, on the floor on his hands and knees. "Go on, bring me the thorns," he said wearily, with his usual silent cursing of whatever spiteful little bastard had thought of paying the jew-king this particular homage all those years ago.

He managed not to flinch when the prickly wreathe descended onto his head… but then when they slapped it so that it broke his skin in a dozen places, he groaned and found himself trying to pull away.

Once thoroughly crowned, he wiped the blood from his eyes and looked up to see if Jesus was there. He was. Somehow though, the sadness and compassion he saw in Jesus's face, instead of comforting him, made him cry.

Jesus sighed. "I know. Be strong. Are you ready?"

"Ready?" he snorted, lacking the energy to snap any further than that. "I… yes, all right, I'm ready. C-…" It took him another moment. "Do it."

They dragged him to his feet as they made their preparations, and he stood firm. That was good – the first time he'd seen the apparatus he was to die on… the first _few_ times, actually… his legs had turned to jelly and he'd crumpled straight to the ground. This time he didn't move. He knew what it was going to feel like when they loaded the rough, splintery crossbeam across his lacerated shoulders. He knew what it was like to be crushed under its massive weight. He had learned by now how to keep moving forwards, or his best approximation thereof, to avoid the kicks and lashes that resulted from staggering off-course.

The ropes cut into his arms, the crown dug into his head, but he finally settled the impossible burden well enough to move ahead with it. Well, not quite ahead… a sharp shove corrected his course and he cried out. What he had suffered so far had not made him immune to lesser pains. Rather, even the smallest and most casual cruelties – a slap, a push, a yank on his hair – sent waves of agony over his raw battered body, and under the disorienting strain of the cross nearly brought him to his knees.

_Keep going, _he thought. With his eyes full of sweat and blood there would be no point looking for Jesus, but Pilate knew he was there and said, "I'm going, I am. Help me," when he had about reached the end of his endurance.

_CRACK_. The searing pain of a whip made him arch violently, losing his balance. He stumbled sideways, tried to catch himself, ended up facedown in the dust. "No- _fuck _no," he gasped, struggling to get up. The cross was pinning his neck flat to the ground and he was stuck. He shrieked _no_ again when he sensed the soldiers cluster up around him, tried to explain that he was _trying_ for God's sake but then somebody kicked him good and hard in the kidneys and he couldn't say anything at all.

They dragged him up to his knees, knocked the wind out of him and then let him collapse again. He was trying to inhale. The world rocked. "There – you're up. Now go," one of the men growled in his ear. "And stop saying _help me_ – nobody is going to help you!"

As he stood there almost dead on his feet people were laughing at him – _laughing _at him – and Pilate suddenly felt almost too unnerved to continue. He cast around desperately for some kind of encouraging thought, some inspiration… and remembered Jesus promising, _I will be with you_. It helped a little. Jesus was somewhere. He had a friend… somewhere.

He made it a little bit further before someone else decided to whack him, at which point he lost his footing again and went down. He hoped for a moment that they might just beat him to death right there and have done, but before anybody could even lay a hand on him a voice said, "Wait."

He recognized the voice but he couldn't quite place it. "Let him be. He's obviously too weak," the person continued, more scornful than sympathetic. "Take it from him, one of you, or we're going to be here all day."

Pilate thought he was losing his mind. No _wonder _the voice sounded so familiar – it was his own. Something he'd said years and years and years ago, during the first crucifixion he'd ever had a part in.

Too bad they hadn't chosen to quote from one of the days when he'd pardoned somebody.

The beam was cut loose from his arms, and heaved on top of somebody else. They shoved the helper forward, barely gentler with him than they had been with the condemned man… and if Pilate had thought he was losing his mind before, now he was _sure_. "Jesus?" He hurried to catch up, running the gauntlet of whip-happy soldiers that stood between them. "What-…"

"I said I'd be with you," Jesus reminded, already short of breath from his exertion. "Here I am. I will carry your cross." He looked pretty bad all of a sudden, almost as if the soldiers had had a go at _him_, too.

Pilate's sense of self-preservation seemed to have finally given up – he said: "No, don't. Let me," without even realizing that he should stop himself.

Jesus shook his head without looking. "You couldn't, even if you wanted to." Considering he kept tripping down to one knee and was only managing to walk a straight line because people were dragging him along, Pilate knew dimly that he was probably right.

Someone… right about something. He was barely conscious. Everything hurt, but more distantly now. The sky seemed to have darkened. _Everything _was darkening, actually…

"We're there." A voice woke him up. Jesus's voice. "You can go through with it this time, Pilate. I think you're ready."

Things came back to him slowly, while soldiers set about attaching the pieces of the cross together. The pain came first. Afterwards, a bit of thought. "It was farther, this time." Jesus didn't answer, but he _knew _it was true. The few times he had made the walk it was _always _hellish, but sometimes more so than others. This time had been the worst… and he'd made it. He'd _made _it, he was there, and if Jesus said he was ready, then maybe…

When the cross was set up they laid him down on it. He kept his lips pressed together but a high pitiful keening escaped anyway – he could _feel_ the snags in the wood catching on his shredded skin, digging into his flesh… and the thought that that would soon be the _least _of his problems….

His head was rapidly clearing now, his confidence diminishing as he heard the clank of spikes dropped in a heap and sifted through. They stretched his arms out loosely to begin tying him- "Jesus?"

No answer. He started to surge up, but they pushed him down. "Quit your squirming," a soldier laughed, "Or we'll have to find some way of keeping you in place…"

Clank, clank. "These might work." Snickers.

Pilate stopped fighting. He tried not to look, tried not to panic. Panic had been his downfall here more than once… but really, what was there to panic about? This was _happening_, that was all. This was happening… but he wasn't alone. Jesus was around here somewhere.

Ropes tightened around him. He lay still. Someone thudded a knee onto his stomach and said, "Still awake, there?" and he nodded yes, then concentrated on taking deep, even breaths.

They nudged his clenched fist, and he opened it.

The nail felt very big and very blunt in his hand. He didn't close his eyes. He was still breathing.

"Look at me," Jesus instructed quietly. "It will help you."

"Yes." There he was. Pilate looked him in the face, feeling far calmer than he usually did at this stage, and said: "All right: now."

When the mallet struck, it was as though time stopped. In that first tiny instant after the impact reverberated through him, he felt it all separately – the tear of his skin as his palm was pierced. The immense pressure crushing down into his flesh, the crack-crack-crack and curious _emptiness _of bone disintegrating… and, worst of all, the single thought: _this is it._

Time unfroze when the _pain _hit him, though. He ceased to notice or imagine all the subtleties of the feeling, and just knew agony beyond anything he'd faced today or ever. The hammer rose and fell again, driving the spike well and truly _into _him now, penetrating all the way through not just the skin, but all the muscle and flesh beneath. Ruining his hand, destroying and breaking him as he screamed all the air from his lungs and arched so hard off the wood that they had to have more men come and hold him down.

"Don't say stop," Jesus told him before the thought had even properly formed up. "Keep your eyes on me and just let go."

Another few blows to knock the nail all the way in, and then the men shifted to the other side. Pilate was seeing the hill fade in and out, forgetting all about his intention to keep focused on Jesus. He was writhing under the men who held him, trying mindlessly to yank his nailed hand free, wailing _No, gods no, don't do it please God no more…_

"No," Jesus corrected gently as they pried Pilate's fingers open to set the other spike. "You know what to ask Him for."

Pilate's head was only just clear enough to understand what he meant. _Stop asking for it to stop. _"Please – then please help me endure this!" he babbled instead. "Help me, I'm trying, it fucking hurts that's my _hand,_ I'm doing it please stay with me God stay _here_! Jesus!"

"I'm here with you and I _will _stay by your side," Jesus promised, and amazingly, Pilate felt the urgency of his panic abating. "That's right – trust in me. Everything is fine. Look."

He stopped fighting and shrieking. "Ow," he whimpered through his tears, begging Jesus with his eyes to _understand._

"I know," Jesus soothed, then looked over and nodded at the men who stood waiting to begin.

Pilate locked eyes with him again as the hammer descended.

* * *

TBC.

A Jesus-related crucifixion story where Jesus is not the crucifixee. Odd, I know. Anyway, I would really like to know what you thought so far. Review!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Again, heads up: it's a bit gruesome. Sorry.

* * *

Pilate lay still, moaning. He was in agony, the absolute pinnacle of agony as he could conceive of it so far, and the most thinking he did was wild half-formed thoughts of _this is the end_.

He didn't bother to look around for Jesus or even to wish for his help. There was no point; he could feel his blood and his spirit draining out of him and he was finished. _This is the end_.

It didn't cross his mind, at all, that maybe he was _not_ finished… or that things could get worse. The first clue he had was a loud creak, and people talking. The world was shifting unpleasantly, things were moving somehow…

He mumbled _no let me be_, because whatever they were doing was a terribly cruel thing. He hurt, he hurt _everywhere_, he could suddenly feel pressure and tugging on his arms, his hands, his feet…

And his head hurt, it felt awful, a minute ago he was coping but now he was dizzy and he felt like his head was about to explode. _What in the name of all love on earth_…

People were laughing as he became a little more animated, and he soon figured out what was going on. A bunch of soldiers had hoisted the bottom of the cross up on their shoulders to tip him backwards. The blood was rushing his head, waking him, yanking him from the torpor he'd almost begun to get _used_ to.

Now he was awake, and aware, and seriously miserable. "No!" he cried, shifting a little in a vain attempt to ease his position. "Stop it; you're not supposed to… Jesus! Tell them they have to _stop_!"

They dropped him abruptly. He screamed as the cross crashed down, screamed so loudly that he almost missed the question: "_Stop_, did you say?"

"What?" it took him a moment to realize what was meant. "Oh! No I…" he grit his teeth. _I didn't want you to stop_ just would not come out. He _did_ want them to stop, more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, but somehow he had completely failed to remember that he had the power to make it happen.

And now that he did remember, he wished he didn't. Suffering, on its own, was bad but it was easy. _Choosing_ to suffer was something else entirely. "I can't… listen, I can't-" He caught himself in time and sobbed instead. _Jesus, please, help me_, he thought, knowing he would never manage to speak it intelligibly. _I'm not going to say it, I'm not, I'm trying so hard, you have to help me. Help me to obey you, I'm trying but_…

"Orders, sir?" one of the soldiers asked.

Pilate hissed out his breath slowly. He swallowed down the mouthful of blood that had collected while he was lying flat, and steeled himself to speak. "Hoist it up for God's sake and finish it," he spat at last. He bashed his head back against the cross, the one gesture of temper that remained to him, and closed his mouth hard.

_This is it, this time. It is really it. There can be nothing more after this._

Or so he told himself.

* * *

The cross was starting to tilt, to rise, and Pilate was sick. There was nothing in his stomach but he retched anyway, convulsing helplessly over and over, cursing himself for it because of what it did to his torn muscles and pierced hands.

Seasickness had always hit him hard. Never like this though, never to the point where an iron fist grabbed his guts and twisted, where he couldn't _see_, where he would gladly give his soul, rape his children, slit his own mother's throat if only the world would steady itself again…

It did – finally. The cross reached its upright position; it shook once, settled into place and stayed there.

Pilate's stomach stopped heaving, but he was immediately assailed with a new kind of visceral panic. He found himself searching for (nonexistent) leverage, trying to press back against the cross. "I'm falling," he choked out.

Someone laughed and gave his foot a little yank. "I don't think so."

What shot up his leg was hot and inhuman; he bit his lip til it bled and didn't even realize he was making noise anyway. They were right: he was stuck, nailed, and the mere _idea_ of it was more than he could handle. How had he never realized before now, how had he ever watched a crucifixion – let alone ordered one – without feeling shaken and horrified to the core? A _person_, a human being transfixed to the wall like a bug with a pin through it. A man tacked up there, suffering without help or hope, fully conscious of what was being done to him…

"_No_," he groaned, involuntarily flexing his arms a little. He shuddered at the renewed pressure of the ropes, the grind of the nails inside him. The feeling was disgusting, unbearable, and he tensed up hard with the resolution not to move again.

"Comfortable?" Somebody called up from below. There was another tug on his ankle, another sharp stabbing pain. He just let himself cry. And why not – his chin had dropped, he was drooling blood all over his chest and he'd already wet himself. There didn't seem to be any lower he could go.

Eventually he ran out of the energy necessary for bawling, and was quiet. He could hear, then, that they were mocking him down there… and out of nowhere he remembered it was said that Jesus of Nazareth had ranted _forgiveness_ at the crowd while he died. Impossible. "This has nothing to do with you," Pilate mumbled to them, scornful indifference the absolute limit of his generosity. But then he saw _enjoyment_ on some of the faces, and he had a sudden vision of the cross toppling forwards, a freak accident that would crush everyone…

His blurry daydream was interrupted when a big fly landed on his cheek, drawn no doubt by all the sweat and blood. He blinked it off, threw one more glare down at the crowd and then noticed that he didn't see Jesus. Well, all that meant was that his eyes were no longer focusing properly. "Now what?" he rasped.

_Now we wait,_ Jesus answered in his mind. _And you die. I'm sorry._

Jesus's tone was gentle, but it was chilling nonetheless. He tried not to think about it. He focused on breathing, which was no easy feat for a man hanging mostly by his outstretched arms. With every gasp there was a piercing bolt of pain in his left side that suggested he'd broken a rib. He didn't _want_ to see it, surely, but he found himself craning his neck anyway, miserably eyeing his jutting rib cage the next time he inhaled. He could see an ugly lump, so clearly defined that it was a wonder the bone hadn't started to poke through his skin…

The thought of his bones, of himself as a skeleton, was severely distressing. Pilate closed his eyes and tried to pay attention to something else. "I'm thirsty," he croaked. It felt like a capitulation of some kind, asking them for favors, but right now he needed relief from _something_. From anything. He needed to feel his torment ease by some tiny percentage...

He'd always thought that the dying were never denied a drink of water on the cross, but when a wad of damp cloth was shoved in his face the smell turned his stomach – it wasn't water at all, but spoiled wine. "It's sour…" he complained, twisting away. When they persisted, though, smearing the rag across his face, the wet tantalized him so badly that he snapped his jaws shut on it and sucked for all he was worth.

"I'm sure your lordship is used to better," called a soldier from the ground. "But you'll have to make do with this for now!"

The rag was withdrawn before he was even done with it. "Wait-" he gasped, licking his lips, gagging on the taste and still parched… he _needed_ a cup of water harder than he had ever thought possible.

They poured another splash of foul wine and offered it again. "More?"

He said no and shook his head til his neck hurt, but still when they brought it to his mouth he drained it dry, crying and retching the whole time.

When the liquid was all gone the smell still lingered. His stomach rolled.

That, along with the unpleasant stickiness of blood drying on his jaw, prompted him to turn and wipe his face against his shoulder. It cost. The sight of the gore, the nail, his poor murdered hand made his muscles jump in rebellion. As he twitched he could feel all his existing pains, and the creation of a few new ones...

He saw himself a helpless, inanimate object, fixed to a post and forgotten about, and he started to make noise again.

"I can't, I can't," he was moaning. He remembered Jesus's voice: _You can't do it alone_… Jesus had insisted on that, too many times to count. "God?" he mumbled, as an experiment, but of course received no answer at all. The feeling of abandonment suddenly hit him hard and he used the next several of his hard-won breaths whimpering for Jesus. "Please, Jesus, come here… I need you… Jesus it's bad, it's so bad…"

"You know you can always ask to come down!" somebody shouted from below.

Until now he'd forgotten. "No – I won't. _I will not_," he said, bloody spit spraying from his mouth with every gasp. _Jesus help me, help me do it_. He wiped his face again, this time without looking, and tried not to notice the strain on his exhausted muscles, or how difficult it was becoming to breathe.

_I will be with you_, he remembered Jesus saying. Or was he actually hearing it again, now?

It didn't matter. Jesus could be as silent as liked, but he was around somewhere. He was doing his part, and Pilate would _damn well do his._

And his part was just to die. Pilate stopped struggling, and let himself slump. He felt the blood trickling down his forearms to pool in his elbows. It didn't bother him as much as it had before. He closed his eyes, sagging forwards…

* * *

But if he had expected to be able to give up that easily, he was mistaken. For a moment he was floating, the world fading, the misery over… it was profound relief while it lasted, but then his chest jerked with a reflexive, futile attempt to breathe and he realized _I'm dying._

That woke him up, all right. _No_! He fought for air, fought hard enough that pain tore through him, reviving him til he fully understood what was happening. He'd almost died, there. _Died_. The throbbing concentrated itself in his shoulders and his arms, his chest. He must have pulled himself back up far enough to inhale.

Fat lot of good it had done him – now he was suffocating again. And he had nothing, _nothing_ left with which to-…

To do _that_. Pilate raised himself a little and held it. Air, sweet air rushed into him, more than compensating him for the trouble he had taken. Air. He breathed again, panted, drank in everything he could. When he needed to squint he realized the sun was in his eyes – he had lifted his head. How, _how_ had he ever taken such a powerful and defiant gesture for granted before?

He rasped out a noise that in better days would have been a laugh, and opened his eyes fully for a second.

The sun forced them shut as he felt his second (fiftieth?) wind dying down. Maybe this time he could let go for good. _You_ _can take your time_, Jesus always said. _Try for as long as you need to. And when you can manage…_

Could he finally manage now?

Well, ready or not, perhaps he didn't have a choice. He was trembling with the effort of holding still, and yet he was _not_ holding still, he was sliding down, back down to where he couldn't-…

_This is it then. One more, make it count,_ he ordered himself, filling his burning lungs one last time. The sharp stabbing pain again, _I KNEW that rib was broken_, and then he dropped his head, settling in to die.

* * *

_How much longer?_

_Jesus?_

_Jesus I know you're there. Please?_

_I'm not even **breathing** – how much longer can this last?_

_It hurts, my… everywhere… _

_Jesus? Please, how much longer!_

_…_

_oh God_

_Jesus I'm slipping my Jesus I'm falling catch me_

* * *

TBC.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Dante may have forgotten to mention the Eleventeenth Circle of Hell, where reside all readers of fanfictions who don't review… but I assure you, it's there.

Enjoy, here's the end.

* * *

Pilate awoke with no idea where he was. He threw back the covers and sat up, trying to get his bearings. The last thing he remembered before everything had faded to black was gasping for air. Pain.

Now he felt... He gave a quick sharp cough to test his impression, and yes: he felt well. His chest didn't hurt. He could breathe freely. The slow, interminable suffocation was over.

On the one hand he was grateful for that, but on the other…

"I died," he said aloud, shuddering. He got out of bed slowly. "So I finally died. Now what?"

Pilate didn't even realize he had company, until a voice startled him from along the far wall: "Hello."

"Oh-!" The shining robe was new, the neat curls a striking improvement over his old ratty hairdo, and he seemed to… well… _glow_. And he was taller now. But still there was no mistaking him. "Jesus Christ. You're looking well."

"Thank you." Jesus smiled at him. "You are, too."

* * *

The End.

I would be interested to know how you took the ending. I know it could be read either way. Do you see Pilate's situation as conversion & happiness & bunnies & flowers, or as a cyclical sort of thing that means his afterlife is going to suck giant balls for all eternity?


End file.
